


Through the Manhole Cover

by phoenixyfriend



Category: Enchanted (2007), Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Background Character Death, Dimension Travel, Enchanted AU, Everything's Disney until Anevka shows up with a gun, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Listen just assume that shit's going to get a little dark whenever Anevka makes an appearance, M/M, Mafia AU, Multi, Or really a proper AU but you know what it was the starting point, Polyamory, Trafficking Mention, not a straight crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2020-12-20 23:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21065036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixyfriend/pseuds/phoenixyfriend
Summary: Lars fell in love. (Agatha was really quite lovely.)He fell into another world. (He was pushed by Lucrezia. He didn't recognize that.)He met a man. (Half alien, that one.)That man had a fiance. (Also from another world! And very upset.)And a son. (Zachariah, nickname: Zoing.)And a twin he didn't know about. (That's okay. Zeetha found Agatha instead.)





	1. Meet the Crew

**Author's Note:**

> Final fic for event week!
> 
> Oct. 16: Free Day/Everybody Go Comment on each other’s fics

Once upon a time, there was a young man named Lars.

Lars was not royalty, or particularly smart, or even particularly brave. He was, however, very handsome, and had a good memory, and very, very kind. He couldn’t solve most of the math problems put to him, but he could look at a puzzle box and solve it quite easily. He was, in short, not the brightest bulb in the box, but a solid one that could last quite a while if you just minded the directions regarding what kind of wattage you needed.

Lars lived in a little house in the forest, and spoke with the animals, and made cheese when the mood struck him. He memorized plays and performed soliloquies, in part because he didn’t have many other people to speak with who could join him in performing.

One day, he was abducted by a monster, and a young princess saw and rescued him. This princess was lovely, and strong, and incredibly smart. She looked upon Lars and told him that she would quite like to marry him, and then asked him for his name. He told her, and they rode off into the sunset.

The morning of the wedding, the princess’s beautiful mother invited Lars to look into her magic well and gaze upon the future.

Then she pushed him.

Seconds later, Lars crawled out of something he’d never heard of, not even in fairy tales, in a city center so large and bright and terrifying that he never could have dreamed of it in his worst nightmares:

A manhole cover in Times Square.

\--

“Zoing, just—yes, I know it’s uncomfortable, but it keeps you _safe.”_

_“Itches!”_

“Yeah, buddy, I know, but—” Gil looked desperately around and pulled out the blanket he saw peeking out his son’s bag. He pulled it out and quickly folded it over and slipped it between the child’s neck and the seatbelt. “How’s that?”

“…izbetta,” Zoing declared. “Wekenhavsumtee?”

“Slow words, bud, slow. Not everyone has as much practice understanding you as I do,” Gil said. “And sure, we can have some tea when we get home.”

“Kenmekmyself?” Zoing asked, bouncing a little.

“If I’m there to make sure you’re okay,” Gil said. “Now, do you know where we are?”

“Ummmmmmmmmmm,” Zoing strained to see out the window, one hand on his head to try his best to keep his red hoodie in place. “No?”

“What numbers are on the street signs?” Gil prompted.

“Fittythreenine,” Zoing answered promptly.

“That’s right, we’re at a red light at fifty-third and ninth,” Gil said. “So, which side are we on?”

“West.”

“And are we downtown, uptown, midtown, or something else?”

“Middle!”

“That’s right! So, what’s in midtown west?”

“Timesker!”

“Right, Times Square, but that’s a little south. What else?”

“Penn!”

“You’re getting colder. Hint: remember the superhero in red with the horns?”

“Devil?”

“Yes, Daredevil. Where did he live?”

“…Weerinhellkitchen!”

“There you go!” Gil said. “We got there.”

He put a hand on Zoing’s head and rubbed back and forth in a way similar to rubbing hair, if only the hoodie hadn’t been in the way.

“Your kid okay?” the taxi driver asked.

“He’s fine,” Gil said. “The seatbelt was just bothering him.”

Gil looked down and saw that Zoing was fiddling with the tassel at the edge of the blanket in way that was probably very entertaining to him, but was definitely going to get the fabric fraying the same way the last one had. He reached into his bag again and pulled out the plastic snake loop.

“Here you go. Try not to mess up the blanket.”

“Kaydaddy!”

Gil pulled out his phone to check the time. It was later than he’d planned, but the meeting with the speech therapist had involved a surprise rehash of his insurance policy, so that had eaten up an hour of time where he’d had to find increasingly desperate ways to keep a fidgety six-year-old entertained while the adults talked about boring legal and financial things.

** _Tarvek: _ ** _Need to reschedule tomorrow. Grandmother wants to have a talk about some of my designs and I can’t say no. Let’s say 7:30 instead of 6:00?_

Damn. Well, that was fine. Gil could live with that.

** _SCreEEECH_ **

The car slammed to a stop.

Zoing screamed.

_Shit shit shit_ “Hey, buddy, you okay? Did the blanket keep you from getting hurt?” Gil jumped into damage control.

“Mokaybudaddyguyfall!”

…wh—_oh._

_‘I’m okay, but daddy a guy fell.’_

Well.

Shit.

The cab driver wa—was already outside, okay, sure.

“Stay here,” Gil said, and slipped out of the car. He hurried around to the front, where he found a very frantic man his own age, and a cabbie who was having more trouble than expected with the question of “holy shit dude, do you need a hospital?”

Gil stepped past the driver and over to the young man on the ground. “Hey, hi, let’s just calm down a bit. I’m Gil. I’m not a doctor, but I did premed in undergrad. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“…yes?”

Not a good sign.

“Did you hit your head?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just fell.”

“Did you get hit by the taxi?”

“The what?”

…okay, _definitely_ not a good sign.

“Let’s get you up,” Gil said, ignoring the twisting of his stomach. “Do you know your name?”

“Lars, it’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m Gil.”

“You said that already.”

Gil narrowed his eyes at the man. “Well, I suppose that lowers the chances of a concussion…”

“A what?”’

Hell, hell, hell.

Gil pulled the man to his feet, noting rough callouses and eyes that sparkled in a way no human’s did.

“Where did you say you were from?”

“Andalasia, have you heard of it? Only, no one else has, and I’m starting to get quite worried about ever getting home again.”

“Why don’t you come with me,” Gil said, nearly on a whim. “I’ve got a couch you can spend the night on, and I can help you get home in the morning.”

“Really?” the man asked, sounding delighted and far too trusting.

“…really,” Gil said.

He pulled out his phone as he climbed back into the taxi, making sure he was wedged between the stranger and his son.

“Hey Zoing,” Gil said. “This man is going to stay with us tonight, okay? Like how Wooster does sometimes.”

Zoing nodded sharply. “Whagonhappenwivek?”

“I’m texting him right now,” Gil assured him.

** _Gil: _ ** _I need your help._

** _Tarvek:_ ** _ ? What’s wrong_

** _Gil: _ ** _Taxi nearly ran over a guy. Seems super lost. Doesn’t know what a taxi or concussion are. Says he’s from Andalasia. I’m letting him sleep on my couch._

It takes several endless minutes for Tarvek to respond.

** _Tarvek:_ ** _ I’ll come right over. We’ll skip dinner._

Yeah, that was about what Gil had expected.

\--

Gil showed Lars to the couch and put on the news, then slipped into the kitchen to start making dinner. Zoing sat at the table, scribbling away on a sheet of paper as the kettle on the stove trundled along to relearning how to whistle. The doorbell rang, and Gil forced himself to stay relaxed as Zoing scrambled off of his chair and ran to the front door. Tiptoes, still, but he could reach the lock. When Tarvek opened the door, Zoing slammed into his legs with a speed only achieved by overexcited toddlers seeing one of their favorite people in existence.

Tarvek picked him up without hesitation and propped the child on his hip. He slipped into the kitchen, eyes trained on the unfamiliar face in the living room. Lars was transfixed by the pictures on the screen, and didn’t seem to even notice that a new person had arrived.

“That’s him, then?” Tarvek said quietly.

“No kiss?” Gil asked.

Tarvek rolled his eyes. He pressed his lips to Gil’s cheek and then pulled away, mien serious. “Is that _him,_ Wulfenbach?”

“It is,” Gil said. “So?”

“I can’t just _tell,”_ Tarvek snapped. “It’s—it’s not like there’s some way I can just snap my fingers and _magically—”_

“Then talk to him,” Gil interrupted. “He’s right there. Ask him a question.”

Tarvek wrinkled his face in distaste, but marched into the living room and shut off the TV. His face was as smooth as ever by the time he made it to the room in question, though Lars still jumped up and back and looked like he was three seconds from a panic attack at Tarvek appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

“Hello. I’m Tarvek. Do you mind if I ask you a few things? Can you tell me about Andalasia?”

Lars did, and happily so. He talked about the circus, and his fiancée, whom he’d met just days earlier, and his future mother-in-law, and—

“I’m sorry, _what_ did you say her name was?” Tarvek demanded.

“Lucrezia,” Lars said. “Oh, are you upset that she might have pushed me in? I’m sure she didn’t mean to. Everyone knows of her romance with King Bill, and a hero like him had to have—”

_“She’s meant to be dead,”_ Tarvek hissed with fury.

Lars leaned back, eyes wide and mildly terrified.

“Babe,” Gil called over. “Stop scaring him. You’re bristling.”

“I am _not.”_

“Your hair is glowing.”

Tarvek glared at him, but closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. When he opened his eyes again, he was calm.

Mostly.

“Lucrezia Mongfish is _not_ what she seems,” he said. “Lars, you seem like a sweet man, but you _cannot_ trust that woman.”

“Not an issue If he can’t even get home,” Gil pointed out.

Tarvek bit his lip, considering.

“Do you… know?” Lars asked. “How I can get back?”

“Maybe,” Tarvek said. “Probably not. I’m… I have to make some calls.”

“Your sister?” Gil asked.

Tarvek winced. “Unfortunately.”

\--

“Up to the penthouse,” the receptionist directed, barely even looking up at them. “You’ll be let right in, she’s expecting you.”

“Of course she is,” Tarvek muttered.

“Is your sister nice?” Lars asked, clearly trying to start up some friendly small talk.

“No,” Tarvek said shortly. “Not unless she wants something from you.”

“Very polite, though,” Gil said, pressing the ‘up’ button for the elevator. “She might kill someone, but she’ll probably apologize for it first. Sarcastically, of course, and a little sadistically, but…”

“She’s a high society _bitch,_ but she’s powerful,” Tarvek said as they got in. “I love her, don’t get me wrong. She’s my sister. She’s also absolutely remorseless.”

“Great taste in shoes?” Gil offered.

“Please stop trying to say she’s redeemable,” Tarvek said. He watched the numbers ticking up with visible irritation. “He might think she’s safe to talk to, and then he’ll _say_ something, and then she’s going to decide that it’s time to be scary.”

“Is she married?” Lars asked. “Or—what does she do?”

“She’s a mafia-princess-turned-mafia-boss and her big thing most of the time is weapons dealing,” Tarvek said. The doors slid open, but he didn’t step out. Instead, he held the door and turned to face Lars. “Please don’t say anything unless she asks you first. Let me handle most of the talking.”

“We’re three grown men and she scares us shitless,” Gil said, almost cheery.

Tarvek shook his head and opened the door. “Hello, Anevka.”

The woman behind the desk smiled. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time.”

Tarvek looked pointedly at the white sheet that was covering a body by the wall. He looked back at Anevka. “You don’t say.”

She laughed and sat back. ”Oh, don’t worry._ That_ one was a monster. Selling girls and using our wares to do it. I told him to stop, or there would be consequences.”

“And then you were the consequences.”

“I have lines I won’t cross, brother dear. That was one of them.”

Tarvek shook his head. “I need some help. I’ll pay.”

“Oh?” Anevka leaned forward, steepling her fingers on the desk. “Do you want the family discount?”

“There’s no such thing and you know it.”

“Well, I had to _try_, didn’t I?” She tilted her head. “So, what is it that you need?”

“Identification papers,” Tarvek said quickly. “For Lars here.”

“Last name?”

“He doesn’t have one,” Tarvek said. He paused, and took a deep breath, and continued. “Don’t pull a gun, but he claims to be from Andalasia.”

Anevka pulled the gun.

Lars didn’t seem to understand the danger, but he froze up anyway.

“Anevka.”

“Tarvek.”

“Gilgamesh,” Gil said, and shrugged when they turned to him. “I felt left out.”

Anevka kept her pistol trained on Lars. “So. Why’s he here?”

“Lucrezia pushed him into a magic well—”

_“What?!”_

“—because he was about to marry her daughter,” Tarvek finished. “He popped up out of a manhole cover in Time Square. She’s got a rather good reputation there right now, did you know?”

“You need IDs for him.”

“Yes.”

“How long is he staying?”

“We don’t know how to get him back, so there’s no solid answer there.”

Anevka pursed her lips. “Where’s he staying, is he getting a job, and if not, who’s providing?”

“I’ll do it,” Gil said. “I’ve got the income and Zoing decided he’s fun.”

Anevka nodded sharply. She came out from behind the desk, wheelchair rolling quietly over the heavy carpet. “Follow me, and tell me more about your plans for getting him home. I do _not_ want _anything_ relating to Andalasia in this city for any longer than necessary.”

“Don’t need Lucrezia following him,” Tarvek muttered.

Gil put an arm over Lars’ shoulders and steered him after the Sturmvoraus siblings. “She’s going to start asking questions. Answer them quickly, concisely, and admit if you don’t know something.”

\--

“Lucrezia’s Andalasia isn’t _real,”_ Anevka said, pulling out files and folders and funny little foglios of information. “Or rather, its appearance isn’t. Do you know of Mechanicsburg?”

“It’s in the stories, sometimes,” Lars said.

“Mechanicsburg is what Andalasia once was,” Anevka said. “It was what this world would refer to as film noir. Very muted color palettes, odd lighting, only a few colors really showing. Bill was trying to excise some of the utterly nasty parts without ruining the aesthetic that the locals adored, but when he disappeared, Lucrezia kicked it up a million. The world was rainbows and joy and we’re not sure where she got that power, or how.”

“How do you know?” Lars asked, trotting to keep up.

“We lived in a neighboring area, Sturmhalten,” Anevka said, rolling still faster down the hallway. “It was… well, we left, to put it simply. Father came to New York City, and married local. He took us back every once in a while, so we’d know where we came from, and then something happened and he… stopped.”

“So he would know the way back?” Lars asked. Gil groaned quietly.

“He would, if he were still alive,” Anevka said. She smirked. “As it stands, he’s far too dead to be of any use to us, and good riddance.”

Lars stared at her.

“He wasn’t a good father,” Tarvek said, voice curt. “We don’t mourn him.”

“I’m going to get you some identification, and give Grandmother a call,” Anevka said. “She’ll be able to find someone, probably through Uncle Tick Tock.”

“Do you _really_ think this is going to work?” Tarvek asked. “And… do you think, if Lucrezia comes here, that—”

“We’ll see,” Anevka said. She pressed her hand to a pad next to a door, and a few seconds later, the door swished open. She pulled a wipe from the little receptacle right next to it and cleaned off the sensor. “Come along. We’ve work to do if we’re going to present you as a real citizen.”

\--

There was once a princess named Agatha. She was raised by her mother, a woman as cruel as she was beautiful, and as good at hiding her cruelty as she was at hiding her blemishes.

One day, Agatha rode out to hunt a monster.

She was friends with some monsters, like her lovely, ever-bright Jägerkin, with hair and skin that was as saturated than any paint, and wary of others, like the pale ladies that worshipped to her mother, with their moon-skinned spider mounts and milky draconian messengers. She did not know many people beyond these, as her townspeople did not speak with her much. They were… calm. Muffled in thought, almost. She thought them sweet but boring people, and wished they would speak with her beyond the single spark of interest she saw in their eyes whenever she got excited herself.

So she rode out to hunt, death ray in hand and Jägers at her heels, and found a monster. She fought the monster, and chased it off, and turned to see what she’d saved.

She found a boy.

He was interesting, and clever in his own way, and he did not try to speak over her or treat her as a gentle maiden, as the Jägers and her mother both had warned her a man might. He was everything that the townspeople weren’t, with their half-dazed stares and shuffling footsteps. Agatha decided that she was in love, and declared that they would be married in the morning.

He agreed in delight, and informed the circus. Agatha invited them all to the wedding. Three days was enough to plan, for sure, and her mother would certainly not complain for Agatha to take a husband so pretty as this.

Agatha could not find her groom, so she went searching for him. A Jäger pointed her to the old well her mother sometimes stood over, and Agatha peered in. The mists swirled below, and Agatha made her decision.

She jumped in, her Jägers in pursuit.

\--

“Just bite it,” Gil coaxed. “It’s good.”

Lars continued to look dubiously at the hot dog in his hand.

“Tarvek, just tell—Tarvek, get off your phone.”

Tarvek looked up guiltily from his cell. “I’m just checking to see if Anevka—”

“You’re obsessing.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Zoing tugged on Gil’s sleeve. “Daddy, whadatmean?”

“It means that I consider your father a hypocritical person,” Tarvek said, before Gil could get a word out.

“Tarvek is upset that I’m telling him not to obsess, because I often obsess over things myself, and so he thinks it’s not good for me to tell him to not do something when I also do it.”

Zoing blinked up at Gil.

He took a bite out of his pretzel and went back to watching the ducks.

“I don’t know if I like this.”

Gil’s turned and saw that Lars was frowning down at his hot dog. A piece was missing.

“Try a bit more,” he suggested. “Sometimes it takes a bit to figure out if you like a new food. The fact that you don’t hate it is a good sign.”

“Are you sure Central Park hot dogs were the best starting point?” Tarvek asked.

Gil eyed him for a moment, and then jerked his head and stood up. Tarvek did the same and, when Lars made to follow, Gil said, “I just need to talk to my fiancé. Can you watch Zoing for a bit?”

“I…” Lars looked between the two men, and nodded. “Of course.”

“Thanks,” Gil said with a smile, which dropped as soon as he’d made it far enough away to speak candidly with Tarvek. “Hey.”

“…I’m sorry,” Tarvek said. He wouldn’t meet Gil’s eyes. “I’m—it’s a bad time.”

“You’re stressed,” Gil said. “And I get that, I even get the snapping, just. Not in front of Zoing, please? He’s… delicate.”

“I know,” Tarvek said. “I’ll try harder. I don’t want him to think I’m like his mom.”

“Woah, woah, woah, do _not_ call Zola his mom,” Gil said, shuddering. “That just pisses _everyone_ off.”

“Bio mom?” Tarvek offered. “I don’t know what to call her.”

“Just—just call her Zola,” Gil muttered. He dragged a hand down his face, “Or Malfeazium, I guess.”

Tarvek eyed him. “Are… I know this has been a lot about me and my whole thing, but are_ you_ okay?”

“It’s nothing,” Gil said, already wincing at how quickly he’d said it. “Sorry. There’s a new movie coming out, marketed at his age group, and he asked if we could see it. And none of the trailers have featured the villain speaking yet, but guess who she’s voiced by.”

“Oh. Oh _no,”_ Tarvek said, putting his hand over his mouth. “You can’t take him.”

“Of course I can’t,” Gil muttered. “But I have to come up with something so he doesn’t freak out at hearing her say villainous things to a hero. Maybe someday, to help him with—fucking, I don’t know, exposure therapy or something. Not yet, though, it’s too _soon.”_

Tarvek pulled him close and pressed their foreheads together. “Hey. You’ll be okay. Zoing will understand.”

“He’s a _kid,”_ Gil said quietly. “He shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“I know,” Tarvek said, pulling away and pressing a kiss to Gil’s forehead. “I know, I know, I _know.”_

Gil leaned into the hug, and sagged. “We’re a mess, huh?”

“Heh.” Tarvek pulled his glasses off before they started digging painfully into his face. “Yeah. But that’s why we got together, isn’t it?”

They stood there for a moment, and then Tarvek sighed and pulled away, putting his glasses back on his nose and smoothing out his clothes. “I don’t suppose you could ask your father?”

Gil snorted. “Yes, because asking the man about whether the company’s classified government research involves interdimensional… why are you looking at me like that?”

“You know why.”

Gil rolled his eyes. “Don’t.”

“You know _exactly_ what’s going on down there.”

“That doesn’t mean I can just _ask _him,” Gil grumbled. “I dropped out of engineering and headed into law for a reason, you kn—stop, you can’t make me feel better with kisses!”

Tarvek smirked and placed another kiss on Gil’s cheek. “Sure I can.”

“Daddycomeplay!” Zoing yelled. “Ducklings!”

Gil sighed out a laugh, just a little breathless and tired. “Duty calls.”

Tarvek smiled at him, sad and soft and worn. “We’ll be okay, yeah?”

“Yeah… yeah, we will.”

\--

Agatha turned on her heel as she heard a man yell.

“YO PRINCESS, COMICCON WAS EIGHT MONTHS AGO.”

She drew her death ray and turned.

She… couldn’t tell who had shouted.

“Hoy, miztress,” Dimo said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Mebbe… mebbe dis izn’t de best place to look for hyu boytoy. Mebbe ve should go somevhere vit… _much_ less people.”

“Hy ken’t smell ennyting dot’s familiar,” Maxim said, rubbing at his nose. “Iz… hoy! Hy voz wrong! It’z—”

Dimo’s fist collided with Maxim’s mouth. “Haha! Iz notting.”

Agatha looked at them a little oddly, and then decided that it wasn’t her problem. “Let’s go find Lars.”

She turned to look at the streets around her, picked a direction, and started walking.

This did not last long, as a woman popped up into her face with a crazed grin. “Hey!”

Agatha yelped and stumbled back.

“Wow, your reflexes _suck,”_ the woman said, voice still cheerful. “You need some help with that, dontcha?”

“I do not!”

“You a princess?” the woman pressed.

“Yes,” Agatha said, guarded and letting her hand drift down to her death ray.

“That a sword?”

“Yes.”

“And you just crawled out of the manhole cover over there?”

Agatha turned to where the woman was pointing and… “Is that what that is?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yes.”

The woman nodded and stuck out a hand. “Nice to meetcha. What’s your name?”

“Agatha Clay,” she said, shaking the girl’s hand. “And yourself?”

“Zeetha, daughter of Chump, guardian princess of Skifander,” she said. “I’m… a little lost right now, I’ll admit.”

“Skifander? Oh, the warrior queen’s hidden jewel, right?”

The woman’s grin turned sharklike. “Yeah. Coming out of the manhole like that, with your buddies and… yeah, you’re definitely not from around here. Not from the same place as me, but… you’re gonna need a guide.”

Zeetha stepped forward and turned on her heel. She slipped her arm through Agatha’s quicker than a blink. “You know, I think we’re going to be great friends, but for now… let’s get you out of Times Square. You ever had chocolate?”

“Hy heff!” Oggie volunteered.

“I haven’t,” Agatha stated.

“Great! Let’s get going. I’m thinking… Columbus Circle.”

They set off at a brisk pace North, and none of them noticed the thin white shape that zoomed up through the manhole cover just before it was placed back by some very tired construction workers.

The Geisterdrake spread its wings and hid among the skies that danced with the light of sunlight off of endless glass walls.


	2. In Which the Story Ends, Mostly with a Copout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We complete the story! Mostly because I realized I don't have the motivation to actually write more, so I wrapped it up with a summary and the only scenes I actually cared about.

Gil woke up to singing.

Now, it wasn’t bad singing. Gil knew all about bad singing, because he was the kind of person who produced it.

No, this was the kind of singing Gil associated with Tarvek and Anevka when they forgot—well, Tarvek forgot; Anevka probably did it on _purpose,_ because she was terrifying—that they were fairytale people who could fuck up entire ecosystems with a few well-placed notes.

This was not, however, Tarvek, who was the usual source. Some days, Gil would wake up to Tarvek singing in the shower, and accidentally dragging a few pigeons to listen cheerfully at the windowsill with an absentminded reprise of some Beyonce or Taylor Swift.

No, this was full-powered, completely oblivious, and very much _not_ Tarvek, which meant it was Gil’s houseguest.

Ugh. He really should have explained to Lars why this was a bad idea.

Gil heaved himself up out of bed and rubbed at his hair, which felt like a rat’s nest. Thankfully, it wasn’t _literally_ a rat’s nest, because that had happened once and he’d screamed and thrown the rat out the window and then gotten into one of the biggest arguments he and Tarvek had ever had. It was even worse than the one when they were kids, and _way_ worse than the whole thing in college when Anevka had gotten hurt and Tarvek had just disappeared without even telling Gil to his face.

(It wasn’t _technically_ Tarvek’s fault that Gil had ended up married to Zola, but they’d both admitted that it probably wouldn’t have happened if Tarvek had still been around for the two of them to produce some ridiculous homoerotic tension that consumed their entire romantic attention spans.)

(Because they were idiots, Colette had brightly informed them on more than one occasion.)

But yeah, Gil had woken up to literal rats in his hair before, and while that was a _very_ low bar, he considered it a win if the animals that crawled into his apartment didn’t crawl onto him. Or Zoing.

If anything touched Zoing…

Gil checked on his son before he did anything else, including brushing his teeth, or putting on a shirt. Zoing was fine, was even already dressed in a shirt and jeans and his favorite lobster hoodie, so Gil tossed on a shirt and went into the kitchen.

Gil coughed loudly into his fist and waited for Lars to turn around, and then said, “Please stop singing.”

“Oh, is there a reason?”

“I don’t want animals in my apartment. New York wildlife isn’t the friendly type.”

Lars’s eyes _sparkled._ “Oh, but I’ve already—”

“It’s my house, buddy. Please respect the rules.”

Lars faltered. Apparently he hadn’t been expecting Gil’s particular brand of… Gil.

Something small and fast collided with Gil’s leg, and he hoisted his son up onto his hip. “Zoing, buddy, what are we having for breakfast?”

“Tea!”

“Other than tea.”

“…eggnbac’n?”

“And some bread to soak up the grease in your tummy,” Gil said, poking Zoing in the stomach and eliciting a shriek of laughter. Zoing squirmed and Gil put him back down—he was getting a little old for Gil to pick him up, but what parent wanted their kid to grow up—and then yawned. “I’m going to go brush my teeth and all that. Think you can start on the food?”

“Of course. Where’s the fire?”

“…you know what, never mind. I’ll do it when I get back.”

Gil went to the bathroom, wondering how he’d ended up providing housing for the most himbo-y man he’d ever encountered.

Tarvek wouldn’t be coming by until later, and Gil did, in fact, have a real, proper job he had to go to, and Zoing had school, so Lars was… going to be left alone here.

_There’s always Anevka,_ a snide little voice in his head said. Gil ignored the suggestion, because intrusive thoughts were bitches, but not as big of a bitch as Anevka was, and he wasn’t going to submit ‘first place for biggest himbo’ to her tender mercies just for the sake of convenience.

So… okay. Tarvek and Anevka weren’t the _only_ transdimensional or bidimensional people Gil knew. He just, you know, hadn’t _admitted_ that he knew about the others. And maybe didn’t trust them.

He still really wanted to ask Wooster how the dieselpunk universe worked and if he could visit, but that would require admitting that he knew Wooster was from there, and Gil wasn’t ready for that. That said, asking Wooster to look after a visitor from out of town might work…

The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Gil—“ oh, Tarvek, thank god, “—do you know where you’re keeping your visitor while you’re at work today?”

“I was actually just trying to figure that out,” Gil admitted. “I was going to have Wooster keep any eye on him in the office; not about to leave someone alone in my apartment, especially when they don’t know how to use most modern tech…”

“Loan him to me,” Tarvek said. “Easier to play it off, I’ll just say I’m using him as a male model for a photoshoot and need to do a fitting.”

Oh.

That was… actually not a bad idea.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Tarvek said, sounding exasperated. “Drop him off at the atelier before you get to work; I’ll tell Violetta to let him in. He’ll probably fit into the sample sizes…”

“Can you legally pay him if he’s not registered with some kind of tax ID?” Gil asked idly.

“He’s a friend doing a favor and being later compensated with housing and food,” Tarvek immediately snapped back. “Also, he shouldn’t even be in this dimension, I don’t care about the law. I care about making sure Lucrezia goes back to being dead.”

“Okay.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Just a little. Internally. It’s fond mocking, I swear. Mostly revenge for making fun of me not realizing you could take him today, promise,” Gil said. He was grinning into the receiver and didn’t even feel embarrassed about it. “Love you.”

“I love you too, jackass,” Tarvek said. Gil could hear the smile. “I’ll see you later.”

\--

“You look more natural this way,” Zeetha said cheerfully, hands tucked in her pockets and leaning against a wall as Agatha examined herself in the mirror. Trousers were certainly… something. “Or at least more local.”

“People are likely to stare if I don’t look local, then.”

“Eh,” Zeetha said, and shrugged. She didn’t seem bothered. “It’s New York. People are going to stare a whole lot _less_ here, if that helps? If you’d shown up somewhere rural, you’d be in a pickle.”

“I see,” Agatha said. “I think I like the trousers. They make it easier to kick things.”

“Hell yeah, they do,” Zeetha agreed. “And we’re thrifting, so they’re dirt cheap compared to, like, H&M or something.”

“Are you sure my Jägers—”

“There’s only so much I can do,” Zeetha interrupted. “I mean, you? You can blend in if we give it a shot. I bit hipstery, maybe vintage, but your boys… honestly, people are probably assuming that they’re part of some street performance or something.”

Agatha made a face. Her poor Jägerkin…

“C’mon,” Zeetha said, hooking an arm through Agatha’s and dragging her towards the entrance. “I already paid. You got the stuff you came with? Great, let’s go.”

“Wait, you—”

“No time to lose!” Zeetha cut her off, and continued manhandling her. “We’ve got places to be if you want to find your boy and get home, hon!”

Agatha fumed silently until they got to a bench in the middle of Approximately Nowhere (translation: a park), and Zeetha handed her something called a pretzel. Agatha had never had a pretzel before, so she took a bite.

It was very salty.

“We’re waiting for someone,” Zeetha assured her. “But while we do that: what do you know about the whole… dimensions thing. Have you ever been to one of the others before?”

Agatha shook her head. “No. This is my first time.”

Zeetha’s smile was already very fragile, but she didn’t seem surprised. “Heh. I figured, but a girl always hopes, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mm… I mentioned Skifander earlier, remember? I came here from Skifander almost four years ago; my father was from here, but I don’t even know his core world name. We called him Chump, back home.”

“You said you were lost. Does that mean…”

“Can’t get back,” Zeetha admitted. “You’ve heard of it, but do you know how to get there?”

“Er, no.”

“Right,” Zeetha sighed. “Where—where did you hear of it?”

“My uncle,” Agatha said, and hurried to add, “But I haven’t seen him in years.”

Zeetha dropped her face into her hands and stifled a scream. Agatha wondered if a pat on the shoulder was in order.

When Zeetha finally lifted her head, it was with an expression full of frustration. “Fine. I mean… okay, how much do you know about how the whole… dimensions thing works?”

“I only found out about the reality of it today.”

Zeetha made a face. “Right. Okay. So, the dimensions all seem to treat this one as a centerpoint—all of them connect here, in New York City, even if they’re closer to others. The few people I’ve met that know what’s up say that it’s referred to as the core world. Unfortunately for me, you’re the first person I’ve met that’s actually _heard_ of Skifander, let alone knows a way for me to get back…”

Agatha took a bite of her pretzel, hoping it was enough to excuse her from saying anything on what was clearly a sensitive topic.

“Each world seems to parallel a fictional genre,” Zeetha said. “Albia’s world is a confusing mix of fae and dieselpunk—I know, you probably don’t know what dieselpunk is, but it’s just an example—and Skifander was similar to what the people of _this_ world call a harlequin romance novel, or a bodice ripper.”

“Now _those,_ I’ve heard of.”

Zeetha grinned, sharp and toothy. “Yeah, the few visitors that we had thought the same thing. Seemed to miss that it was more the aesthetic and less the _plot,_ though; they were very offended when the local warrior woman were more interested in kicking their asses than in playing with them.”

Agatha put a hand to her mouth to prevent her choking laugh from spraying Zeetha with wet pretzel. She ended up just coughing.

“Yeah, that,” Zeetha said. “And there were others—I heard there was one that completely transformed genres, or sort of… invaded another dimension and spread the genre? Infected it? There was a dimension of dark fairy tales, the kind that look saccharine on the surface but get terrifying if you dig deep, you know? And they were neighboring a dimension that… I’ve heard conflicting rumors, it was either a mafia dimension or an early-20th century science fiction movie about the horrors of messing with things man was not meant to know—I’ve seen a lot of arguments about it, actually, because a few people insist that there isn’t a mafia dimension at all because that was basically real life here in New York, and people are just making assumptions based on the greyscale and crim, but…anyway.

“Everyone agrees that the coloration went wacky and everything looked grayscale when you first got there, and then colors started showing up as you adjusted… Anyway, one of the women from the dark fairy tales dimension married into the family in charge of the greyscale dimension, and things went completely _haywire._ Colors everywhere, pastels, the king or lord or whatever went missing, everything went all shiny and happy and fake and there’s talk of mind control being involved to _force_ everyone to be perfect for the queen.”

Agatha stared at Zeetha.

That was a lot to take in.

Especially since… “Did you mention the name of the dimensions?”

“Uh… gosh, I don’t remember… I think the original dark fairy tales dimension had something about storms in the name? Greyscale used to be called Mechanicsburg, I remember that, because of the whole science fiction angle, but the new queen changed the name to something more fanciful… I think…”

“Andalasia.”

“Something like… that…” Zeetha registered what she was saying just in time to look up and catch Agatha’s look of dawning horror. “And you said you haven’t traveled dimensions before, so you’re from there.”

Agatha nodded mutely.

“…don’t suppose you know what’s going on there?”

“No, I—nobody’s ever _mentioned_ Mechanicsburg by name to me. It’s always been Andalasia, and Mother… oh no.”

Oh _no._

She really needed her Jägers.

“And your mother,” a new voice said, catching her attention, “Was responsible for that.”

Agatha looked up to see a man some years older than her, blonde and looking almost bored. There was a glint in his eye, though, and he held out a hand. “Axel Higgs. I worked for your father, Lady Heterodyne, and now, I’m bound to you in turn.”

Zeetha’s head snapped between Agatha and Higgs. Her gaze finally locked onto Higgs. “Axel, you better be planning on explaining that.”

“Yes’m,” Higgs said. “Now, I imagine you have an honor guard?”

“My Jägers? Of course.”

“Bring them on in, if you can. I’d like a word with my brothers.”

\--

Anevka Sturmvoraus was not what most people called ‘a nice person.’

Anevka was the kind of person who had been born with the power of a fairy tale behind her, in a world where that wasn’t the norm, and after her own share of tragedies, decided to coopt the abandoned tropes of the genre that this would had born and killed in decades past.

The people of this world were no longer capable of wielding the genre of their lives. Anevka _was._

So when Anevka had seen the scattered remnants of the mafia genre, seen the people going through the motions in what survived of organized crime but not living and breathing the narrative of it, she’d rolled up her sleeves and gotten to work.

Anevka built a criminal empire by getting her own hands bloody and leveraging the magic in her voice and blood to get what she wanted, when she wanted, and how she wanted it.

All this to say, of course, that Anevka had a sixth sense of sorts for how to progress the story, so to speak. For instance, Anevka had said she would make contacts through the various networks her core world grandmother had in place.

Anevka had lied.

She notified Grandmother, of course, as any dutiful girl would. But Grandmother’s contacts would be slow, and the information would seep and creep about, and Anevka had neither the time for that nor the interest in letting the information disseminate. She had plans, and schedules, and a little brother who kept getting himself into hot water.

No, Anevka had better ideas.

“Hello, Boris, dear. Would you mind putting me through to Klaus? It’s about Lucrezia. Hm? Oh… yes, I’ll hold.”

Anevka knew how to leverage tropes, and sometimes, you needed to whip out the biggest gun _first._

\--

**Some time later, in the manner of plots that a reader can infer for themselves, for the author has not the energy or motivation to write it out in full…**

Gil held his son behind him, eyes darting about the cavernous testing site in the Wulfenbach Corporation basement.

“So… is this why you never wanted to work for your dad?” Tarvek muttered, the gun in his hands still pointed at the floor, but not for long. Given how ready DuPree looked for another tally on her kill list, and the aura of rage radiating off of the bone-white women that had followed the Lady Heterodyne down here, this was reasonable.

“Shut up,” Gil finally said, because there were only so many ways he could respond to how quickly “help a himbo get home” had spiraled into “my father is an interdimensional traveler whose most secretive jobs are actually all based in setting up convenient ways to travel to those other dimensions that don’t involve things like ‘crawl into a manhole in the most crowded part of the city’ or ‘ climb to the top of the oldest tree in Central Park and jump’ or ‘take the service elevator in the Empire State Building up to a floor that doesn’t officially exist and then walk until you can crawl out a porthole that doesn’t match the art deco aesthetic,’ I’ve lost my shirt five times in the last two days, and also there’s a dead body on the floor that everyone is referring to as Lucrezia.”

This was why he’d decided he’d rather work for NASA.

“So…” the woman with the green hair drawled. “Who shoots first?”

“You’re using a _sword,”_ Lars pointed out.

“And I’m still capable of kicking most of your asses.”

Lars wisely did not respond to that.

“We will be taking the Holy Child—”

“I’m not a _child!”_

There were too many people here, Gil decided. He couldn’t really _leave_, but it was still very confusing. He wasn’t sure who was on which side, except that everyone hated the ghost ladies.

“Can we try to avoid any more violence while I’m still here?” He asked. “Because, you know, small child. I don’t want him to see any more of this.”

His father’s jaw somehow got _more_ clenched at the reminder of his grandson’s presence. Zoing snuffled, face pressed into the back of Gil’s trousers, as any small child was wont to do in a scary situation.

Nobody had a chance to respond, it turned out, because the ghost girls started fighting at the distraction that was Zoing being cute. Gil chose to believe that Zoing was the distraction, because his son was adorable and absolutely the kind of person that would be a distraction simply on account of being that cute.

Gil was capable of fighting, but he didn’t go on the offense. This was partly because he didn’t have a gun, or a sword, or any other weapon, really, and partly because he was a little busy protecting the aforementioned small child.

It didn’t take long for the fight to end—the Lady Heterodyne had death rays, and Gil hadn’t forgotten how terrifyingly skilled his father was in a battle to the death, and the less said about Bang, the better. When the Jägerkin got involved, it was almost overkill.

Almost.

Gil popped out of hiding with Zoing in his arms when the noises stopped, nodded at the sight of limp bodies that did not belong to any friends or family, and came to stand next to Tarvek again.

“You know,” Gil said, because everyone was standing around and looking uneasy, like they weren’t quite sure where to take this now, except for the part where Bang was ready to murder the woman with the green hair and was only being held back by the glare that Gil’s dad was sending her, “This wasn’t what I planned for date night, Tarvek.”

“I am going to _end you,”_ Tarvek hissed.

Gil did not get a chance to answer. The reason Gil did not get a chance to answer was that one of the ghost ladies was apparently not quite dead, and attacked the closest warm body, which happened to be Gil. Instinct took over, as was expected, and Gil threw Zoing at Tarvek.

Chucked. He chucked Zoing at Tarvek. Gently.

He _gently_ chucked Zoing at Tarvek, to get his baby boy away from the ghost woman that was trying to stab him.

But like, not as gently as possible, because speed was of the essence.

Because a ghost woman was trying to stab him.

Some things just took precedence.

Gil ended up having to backflip away from a swinging hook sword, which managed to catch on his shirt on the way. Somehow.

Point was, his shirt ripped, and as he moved back and parried a few blows from little miss not-dead-_yet,_ she managed to shred the rest, and it fell off.

_“Really, Gil?”_ Tarvek demanded.

“Shut up!” Gil yelled back, because he didn’t have much brain for a witty response when there was a blade swiping inches from his throat. “I’m a little busy here!”

“That’s the sixth time this week!”

Gil did not have time to answer. The reason he did not have time to answer was that a sword sprouted through the center of the ghost lady’s chest, somehow spraying blood on Gil’s face. Blue blood so dark it was almost black, because sure. _Why not._

“You need practice,” the woman with the green hair said, grinning at him in a way that looked more predatory than friendly.

“Leave him alone,” Gil’s dad interrupted, because apparently an active threat was less important than a random girl teasing him.

Cool.

Fuck Gil’s life. It wasn’t like anything made sense anyway.

Of course, then the girl with the green hair said something in a language Gil didn’t even recognize, let alone understand, and his dad _responded in turn,_ and all Gil could do was turn to Tarvek and made wide, confused gestures.

Tarvek shrugged, still holding Zoing. Zoing had apparently decided that this was all too much—very fair—and tugged his lobster hood up over his head and hid his face in Tarvek’s neck.

Too cute…

“Are you _shitting me?” _the woman with the green hair demanded, drawing Gil’s attention back to her and his father. Klaus, for his part, looked almost as pale as the dead woman on the floor. He still found the time to snap an admonishment.

“Language!”

“I’m an adult and we’re surrounded by dead bodies, the kid isn’t gonna be bothered by a few bad words at this point,” the woman responded. “Seriously? You’re _seriously_ Chump?”

Klaus looked aggrieved. Gil couldn’t pick a better word for it. He didn’t want to, actually, because he was honestly kind of annoyed. “Hi, either of you feel like explaining? I already felt like I had only half an idea of what was going on. If it involves you, Father, it involves me.”

The woman snapped her head around to stare at Gil with wide eyes, then Klaus again, and then whispered something that was probably an expletive. She punched Klaus in the shoulder.

Gil didn’t pity his father in the slightest.

“Zeetha?” the Lady Heterodyne called. “Is this something I should know about?”

“Family business!” the woman apparently named Zeetha shouted back. “Don’t worry about it!”

She then turned back to Klaus, crossed her arms, and quirked an eyebrow. She jerked her head at Gil, very obviously indicating that, whatever was going on, it was Klaus’s job to explain.

Klaus stared somewhere into the distance above Gil’s head for a few moments, and then put a hand to his face. “This is not how I anticipated telling you.”

“Telling me _what?”_ Gil asked.

“You have a sister,” Klaus said. “And apparently, she’s here, and _not_ to kill you like I thought.”

Gil stared at his father. Zeetha waved and grinned. “Hi.”

“What?”

“This is your sister,” Klaus said, gesturing at his _apparently secret other child._ “I thought if anyone came from your mother’s home to here, it would be specifically to assassinate you.”

“Wh—a—_why?”_

“Because my—_our_ mom is the Queen of Skifander, and the high priestess thinks twins are an apocalyptic sign if you don’t… eh, take care of the problem.” Zeetha shrugged. “Usually it’s just a ritual and one of the kids gets adopted out, but royalty is special.”

“Skifander is one of the other dimensions,” Klaus explained, before Gil could start sputtering again, or maybe wanting to slam his head against a wall.

“Which genre?” Gil asked, already dreading the answer.

Klaus winced. Zeetha didn’t.

“We’re harlequin romance novels,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, thrusting her chest forward, and beaming.

The torso motion wasn’t sexual. It was an intimidation move. It worked, and Gil was privately thankful that it was clearly meant to crush his spirit, because a sexual move from a woman he was apparently a _twin_ to would have been too much.

Everything was already too much, but like. Still.

“You’re saying I’m half harlequin romance novel,” Gil said, carefully and evenly and not at all like he wanted to scream into a pillow for a week.

Klaus continued to look aggrieved, staring into the distance and not meeting Gil’s eyes.

A tiny hand patted at Gil’s shoulder, and it only took a glance for Gil to hold his arms out so Tarvek could return his son to him.

Tarvek looked between the _three_ Wulfenbachs, and then turned to Gil and said, “This is why you keep losing your shirts.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” Tarvek asserted. “And you don’t get to complain about me accidentally singing pigeons into the apartment unless I get to complain about you accidentally destroying every other shirt you have.”

Gil sputtered.

“Wait!” Bang shouted. Maybe she thought they’d all forgotten her and wanted the attention? “Does this mean I don’t get to kill her?”

God _dammit,_ Bang.

\--

Andalasia faded and once more became Mechanicsburg. Gil and Tarvek got married, and somehow ended up, on a semiregular basis, meeting and sleeping with Agatha and Lars. Zeetha got to go home. Bang got to kill some people, and Anevka got to kill some people, and then they killed some people _together _and made out in the wreckage.

And everyone lived happily ever after, except for Lucrezia and her minions, but nobody liked them anyway.

THE END


End file.
